


Squandered My Resistance

by fourth_dimension



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Boxing, M/M, Post-Broken Homes, Pre-Foxglove Summer, Unbeta-ed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, canon-compliant?, just an excuse to get Nightingale to take off his shirt, no boxing research was done for this story though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_dimension/pseuds/fourth_dimension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I didn’t know you boxed, sir.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squandered My Resistance

After Lesley left the Folly, tasering me in the back for good measure, Molly battened down the culinary hatches. Suet, sausages, and mash were back on the menu, much to Toby’s delight. I imagined her ritually burning the Jamie Oliver that Lesley had given her, and was jealous - sometimes I wished I could get rid of reminders of my turn-coat best friend so easily. 

As usual, Nightingale ate what was given him without complaint. While I still snuck out for the occasional kebab or Chinese, he stuck close to the Folly, even when Varvara dropped hints she might enjoy a night out once in a while. I started to think it was a form of penance for his failure with his apprentice. It worried me that his reaction to the betrayal was to retreat from from the modern world. 

I'd been having more and more thoughts like that about my governor, and I didn’t have the first clue what to do about them. I’d always been aware of Nightingale, but in the way you have to pay attention to your teacher and your boss. Mostly you worry about the work they might give you, you hope for praise and (if your boss is Seawoll) fear the consequences of failure, but you don’t stay up worrying about their personal lives and emotional wellbeing. Lately, though, when I couldn't sleep and Call of Duty had failed to distract me, I had started wondering if I treated everyone in my life in that way. Take what they give you, but don't look too closely, and don't rock the boat. I could blame it on a childhood tip-toeing around my dad's mood swings, but I try not to do that outside of mandated therapy sessions. Lesley was the only the latest in a long line of women in my life to tease me for being self-absorbed, and after her betrayal, I kept thinking: if I wasn’t so awful at facing the pain of my friends, maybe I wouldn’t keep losing them.

If Nightingale noticed that I was putting off pub nights and Nazareth visits, that I was bringing my Latin assignments to do in whichever library or sitting room he was reading in, that my eyes followed his movement whenever we were at a crime scene - if he was aware, in short, that I didn't want to let him out of my sight - well, he was kind enough not to mention it.

That’s why, one Wednesday evening, when I saw him leave his paperwork half-done on the desk, and stand, rubbing his knuckles against his thighs, I waited a minute and then followed him down into the basement. He went past the shooting range and armory, into the old-fashioned gym with its polished wood floor and mirrored walls. The bar bells were gathering dust in a corner, but the bright red punching bag that hung in the center was shiny and new - I’d bought it a couple of months after I’d moved in, though I didn’t get to use it much.

Nightingale stripped off his slim grey jacket and carefully placed it over the back of the single chair. Methodically, he loosened his cuff links, unknotted his tie, and finally, removed his shirt. Standing in his undershirt and slacks, he shook out his arms and stretched. His skin was as pale as you'd expect from a man who kept himself under that many layers and inside the dark rooms of the folly, but there were muscles in his wide shoulders. I watched as he wrapped a strips of cloth firmly around his long fingers. He lingered awkwardly over the final tie, finally tucking it with his teeth, a gesture at odds with the creases in his trousers and shine on his shoes. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet and squared up to the bag. Despite the preparation, I still flinched at the first collision of fist and bag. The bag swung back and he connected again, left jab then right. He continued, not missing a beat as his strikes got faster, though his neat hair started to fall into his eyes, and sweat soaked through his shirt. 

The thing about Nightingale is that I expect him to wear his power lightly. He is a big fan of the ‘I couldn’t-have-possibly-have-just-blown-that-door-off-its-hinges’ understated use of force, and I’m used to his casual display of mastery. While he wasn’t awkward or unskilled - he clearly knew what he was doing around the bag - it was strange to see him having to work so hard. I'm not sure how long I watched. Though he must have been aware of me, he didn’t give any sign. Finally, he wiped his brow and stepped back, and before either of us could say anything, I fled. 

That night I was in the middle of a wank in the shower, when the image of those powerful hands and sweating shoulders came into my mind. I pushed away the thought, but as I came it was with the feeling of his long fingers wrapped around me, that intensity directed at my pleasure. I went to sleep feeling like I had lost my mind. 

The next morning, we were sat across the breakfast table as usual, except that every time Nightingale raised his tea cup, I fixated on his hands. It was getting ridiculous. Its not like this was the first time I’d had a bizarre fantasy about someone totally inappropriate; the only thing to do is to make a point of treating the person the same as before. If I acted like my behavior was normal, the awkwardness would go away with time. After all, I’d just decided that I should take more of an interest in the lives of my friends. So I swallowed my scrabbled eggs, and casually said,

‘I didn’t know you boxed, sir. How long have you been doing that?’

He answered matter-of-factly, still half-reading the Telegraph. ‘I learned from a fellow passenger during the long sea voyage to Singapore. I used to practice with the soldiers I was stationed with during the first year of the War. I was told growing up that it wasn’t appropriate for an educated man, but there have been times when I needed to earn the respect of the men I served with, and the willingness to get bloody accomplished that in a way rank and education would not.’ He paused a moment, and added, slowly, 'And there is no room for self-doubt when you box, which makes it an effective medicine.’

I wasn’t expecting that much of an answer. 

‘That sounds…appealing, yeah. You’ve never stuck around when I’ve watched on a fight on the tv, though.'

‘It doesn’t seem the same now. I don’t want you imagining I was some kind of prize fighter, but there was a an honor to the sport, when it was treated as a sport. That was exactly the problem, there was a time I couldn’t stand any sight of blood, and I gave it up.’

I didn’t know what to say to that. This is why I suck at dealing with other people’s trauma. We went back to breakfast in silence. I thought that was the end of it - though I was sure the image of Nightingale posed Rocky-style in a boxing ring would stay with me.

A few mornings later, I was practicing a new spell, a finicky formae inflectentes for impello that crumples an object inwards upon itself. This, as it turns out, is a whole lot harder than exploding it outwards. 

‘Its tidier,’ Nightingale said, 'and less conspicuous, while often achieving the same result.’

‘Also, its less likely to leave me covered in bits of apple,’ I responded. Except that wasn’t true, because when my mind wandered just a little bit, the pressure snapped back like a rubber band, contraction became expansion, and suddenly I looked like an angry baby had thrown its applesauce at my face. 

The third time it happened, some of it landed on the shoulder of Nightingale’s tweed suit - which he must have let happen to prove a point, since I know he is able to shield himself. When he came back to the lab, he was not only clean, but holding a long leather jump rope with wooden handles. 

‘Lets try this. Its important for a practitioner to be able to operate under different conditions, and maintain focus while performing more than one task. This is also key to many higher order spells, which require holding several separate forms in your mind at the same time. Thanks to the highly dramatic course of your training, you’ve already developed some skill at using magic under pressure, much as it harms your discipline. Let’s see if a different kind of distraction will help to focus your mind.’

He had me jumping until I had a solid streak going, than ordered me to produce a werelight. I can do that in my sleep, and certainly don’t need the hand gesture at this point, but maintaining the motion of the rope and the stillness for the spell - that was surprisingly difficult, and the resulting ball of light bounced along with me. When I tried to hold it still, I tripped, the light went out, and I had to catch myself on the nearest table before the foot caught in the rope sent me crashing to the floor. 

‘Rhythm doesn’t seem to be your strength,’ Nightingale said, when I had recovered. 

’Story of my life’ I muttered. My parents certainly could have told him that, after years wincing whenever I tried to pick up an instrument.  
'Its like you said, Sir, I can do it when I have to.’

‘Hmmm. I hesitate to suggest this, but perhaps what we need is something closer to real-world conditions, while remaining under controlled parameters.’

It all seemed obvious where this was headed, so I just said it. ‘We should try it while boxing’. 

‘Do you really think that is a good idea?'

‘Its the perfect solution - enough danger to get my adrenaline going, while I trust you to not let me actually hurt myself.’

He agreed, and I went up to my room for my gym clothes, grabbing a spare pair of sweatpants as I did. Nightingale had stripped down to shirt sleeves again, and looked skeptically at my offered clothing, before slipping into the corridor to change. He looked very odd in my old Arsenal sweats.

‘We need some ground rules, Peter. I’m going to shield us both. It should soften any blow, while still allowing some incentive.’ 

He said a forth order spell, but I couldn’t feel any difference.

‘What does it do?’ I asked.

‘It thickens the air around your face’ he replied ‘Its like a layer of padding so we don’t have to use gloves. Stand still.’

There’s no one else I’d willingly get punched in the face by, which was a thought to examine at another time. I tensed and refused to duck as his fist landed on my cheek. I could feel it, but like he said, it was like getting punched through a waterbed. Suddenly this seemed like it might be fun.

“Alright?”

“You punch like a girl”

“Mature”

“I try”

‘Well, try to land a blow on me. If you can surprise me with impello and not get hit, you win.’

It went jab, jab, duck, cross, belated block. I circled around, trying to keep light on my feet, trying to remember the tricks I’d learned from a summer’s boxing camp at 14, and a lot of tv commentary. Nightingale may not have had flashy technique, but he committed to the fight with blinding intensity. I shaped impello and tried to hold it through another exchange of blows, releasing it just as we started to circle again. He blocked it, sending me back into the wall. It was clear that I'd only have a chance if I did something unexpected. He hadn’t said anything about only using impello after all. Its not too difficult to pull instead of push, and the form for compello is similar enough that I thought Nightingale might not immediately suspect my intentions. I faked left, and cast the spell, pulling Nightingale towards me, intending to switch to impello while he was off guard.

Coach Terry, a bulky white man from Liverpool who liked to talk about his glory days, had been big on footwork. ‘You only think about your fists, you’ll get into a knot and first thing you know, you'll be flat on your arse’. I suddenly realized that my right leg, which I needed to step sideways, was now twisted behind my left, and I swore I heard Coach grunt of ‘Pathetic!’ as I started to go down. Nightingale, attempting to counter my half-formed impello, continued on his forward trajectory, and landed heavily on top of me in a tangle of knees and elbows. 

My arm was numb from smacking it on the hard floor (this is why you needed a ring with mats), Nightingale’s hair was in my mouth, and his elbow dug into my ribs. I lay there for a second, getting my breath back, when I felt him start to shake. Before I could be too worried, though, he pushed himself off me and I realized he was laughing, big gulps of hilarity. I realized I’d never heard him totally let go like that - wry chuckle, yes, full-on wheezing, no. I couldn’t help joining in. Sitting on the floor, aching and messy, we both were acting like we’d heard the the funniest joke in the world. Without his carefully guarded dignity, he looked like a different person, and I fought down a wave of affection. 

We were still sitting like that when Molly found us. She handed Nightingale a towel, and shot me a dirty look. I started laughing all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Boxer', of course
> 
> you can find me on tumblr as itgoesdingwhentheresstuff


End file.
